


Like a china plate

by astuarian



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Sort of a song fic?, relationships are hard, workin' some shit out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25622365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astuarian/pseuds/astuarian
Summary: She didn't think it would be this hard.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Like a china plate

**Author's Note:**

> (Big thank you to Ellie, Scotty, and Kristina - aka The Book Club - for giving this such a warm reception.)
> 
> So, this is just a little thing I did for a weekly writing group I'm part of on Discord. We were discussing and sharing music that inspired us, and the muse finally began to speak again. I've not really found a fandom that's been inspiring me lately, so thought I'd take a chance and post some OC here. 
> 
> (Vaguely inspired by 'Crack Up' by Fleet Foxes)

“Where is it?” she says. The question comes out sharper than she intends, more an accusation than an inquiry. She rifles through the cardboard box again, rattling the stacks of delicate porcelain within.

He sighs, kneading his fingers into his temple. She almost rolls her eyes - he’d complained about the building migraine last night. She’d assumed it was just another ploy to avoid an argument. God forbid they simply have it out and get it over with. No, instead they’d just gone to bed, lying silently on opposite sides of the mattress, separated by an invisible wall of resentment. 

“Shit…” he mumbles.

Her body stills. The attic is dimly lit, but she can see tiny dust motes dance on the tide of her breath. The single word he utters cuts through her like a knife. It’s her turn to paint on a glossy veneer and feign perfection for one day of the year, and somehow he’s going to fuck it up again. 

“What do you mean, ‘shit’? Where is it, James?” she snaps. 

His hand swipes down his face as he sighs again, then slides around to rest on the back of his neck. 

“I was going to tell you…” he begins. 

Her eyes snap up to meet his. He looks at her with a familiar expression - shoulders shrugged, mouth twisted down a little at one corner, brows drawn up and together. She used to find it endearing. In fact, she knows he’s banking on her still finding it endearing, and that infuriates her all the more. 

All the feeling drains from her body, and her fingertips feel numb as they rest on her knees. 

He shuffles hesitantly along the maze of beams and two-by-fours laid over batts of pink fiberglass insulation. He kneels down in the back corner of the attic, behind the boxes of extra Christmas lights and forgotten childhood memorabilia. He pulls out a knotted plastic shopping bag, and her heart sinks. 

He shuffles back through the gauntlet again, shards clinking inside the bag with every step, and sits down beside her. She knows what’s inside. But as he fumbles with the bag, swearing under his breath as he struggles to undo the knot, she hopes. Maybe it isn’t broken. Maybe she won’t be the one to have to explain to her mother why, after four generations, her Thanksgiving turkey is getting brought to the table on whatever Pottery Barn impulse buy she can dig out of the back of the kitchen cabinet.

“It’s not that bad, really,” he tries, pulling out the broken fragments of blue and white bone china. He lays them out neatly on the plywood between them. “I mean, the pieces are all there and-”

“What do you mean, it’s not that bad?” she shouts. “It’s broken, James! It’s in fucking pieces, and you’re trying to tell me it’s fine?” 

She sucks in a shuddering breath, as every nerve in her body fires all at once and she trembles with anger. “How can you look at this, and say it’s not that bad? You can’t just break something and ignore it. You can’t just shove it in a corner and hope it magically fixes itself while you’re off doing God knows what.”

She picks up one of the pieces, waving it in front of his face, “You can’t just… just wish it back together!” 

He opens his mouth as if to reply, but no words come. She is grateful that at least he has the good sense to look away and wipe the false apology off his face. 

A long moment passes. She almost says something. But she’s always the one to say something… 

“We’re not talking about the plate anymore, are we?” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

“It’s not a plate, it’s a platter,” she corrects. “And no… we’re not.” 

They sit in awkward silence. She stares down at the pieces as he nervously arranges and rearranges them. He slides them back and forth, like some back alley game of three-card monte, as if they will somehow make more sense, somehow be less broken, if he puts them in the right order. 

“Just… stop,” she says, placing her hand over his. “It’s fine.” 

She doesn’t mean it. 

He knows she doesn’t mean it. 

“I should’ve told you,” he says. “I meant to tell you. It happened when we moved in. I dropped the box carrying it up here. And you were bringing stuff into the house right behind me, so I just tucked it away until I could take care of it. I was going to have it repaired… I called a couple of antique shops…” 

“It’s fine,” she says again.

It’s not. 

“It’s not,” he says, and she looks up at him. He screws his face into some expression that she knows is supposed to be earnest. It doesn’t sit well on him. That’s always been their dynamic, though, hasn’t it? He’s the head in the clouds, she’s the feet on the ground. But he floated away, and now she’s buried up to her neck.

“It’s not fine. I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you I broke the plate, and I should’ve just taken care of it. Because it’s important to you, and-”

He stands up suddenly, smacking the top of his head on the roof joists with a loud thud. 

“Fuck!” he shouts.

She shouldn’t laugh. 

Eyes wide, she claps her hands over her mouth, but she can’t stop it. Despite the shock and the little wave of empathy she feels at first, a manic sort of laughter bubbles up inside of her.

He gingerly touches his scalp and kneels back down beside her as she struggles to breathe through the fit of giggles. 

Her sister’s plane lands in six hours. She still has to change over the laundry and put fresh sheets on the bed in the guest room and pull the turkey out of the refrigerator to finish thawing in the sink and... 

Instead, she’s in the attic, laughing at her husband’s clumsiness. Laughing at the broken shards of four generations of family traditions. Laughing at the broken shards of four years of good intentions.

“I guess I deserve that,” James mumbles, his lips quirking up into a grin, and it suits him so much better. 

“Let me see,” she says, rising to her knees. She pushes down on his shoulders, and parts his hair to inspect the damage. There’s no blood, but a lump is already forming under the skin. A “goose egg” - that’s what Dad always called it, she thinks. 

“You’ll survive,” she says, and the irony is not lost on her. 

The laughter settles back in her chest as she realizes how close she is to him. It condenses and rises and pools in the corners of her eyes.

Her lip trembles.

He shouldn’t look at her like that. It isn’t fair. 

He cups her face with his hands, and she resists. She resists the urge to lean her cheek against his palm. She resists the urge to turn and breathe in the warm scent of his skin. She resists the siren call of comfort and she hates herself for it. 

Tears spill over and run down her cheeks and she hates herself for that even more. 

He swipes at them with his thumbs, but there are just too many. He cups them in his palms, too.

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

She wants to believe him. 

He presses his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry,” he says again. 

She wants to believe him so much. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be this hard,” she says, her voice breaking on the last word. 

She still has to peel the sweet potatoes and dice the bread for the stuffing and iron her dress for tomorrow and she probably should pluck her eyebrows tonight because she knows her mother will want to take a thousand pictures and… 

She looks up at him, and swallows hard. “Will you carve the turkey tomorrow?”

He nods and pulls her in closer and she doesn’t resist.


End file.
